June 8, 2015

I don’t know that I have processed what yesterday meant when I get to today. If the lady in this hospital bed wasn’t my grandma it would be easy for me to look at her and know that this woman won’t make it.

But she is my grandma and every part of me thinks she has to keep going.

When we get to the hospital today my she opens her eyes only a handful of times. She barely has the strength to nod when we talk to her now.

But everyone in this hospital is still treating her like there may be hope. Why else would dialysis still keep coming in? Why would they still be trying?

Today her body is shutting down. We ask her if she can feel us squeezing her hand and she nods yes every time, even though we are standing across the room.

Even in all of her pain and misery, she doesn’t want us to be scared. She hates for us to worry. Those parts of her are still so much alive.

My mom and I sit in the cafeteria and we have a conversation about how my grandma would want to live, the kind of life she would want to be able to lead. Even as we sit and talk about what my grandma wants, I can feel the disconnect in my brain.

“Grandma would not want to live dependent on other people.”

I say it out loud to my mom. I believe. We know it’s true.

But I don’t understand the deep and heaviest meaning of that statement. My brain doesn’t allow me to process the other side of what I’ve said.

We’ve been in the ICU fourteen days.

We have seen patients to the right and to the left of my grandma pass away. There have been new neighbors moving in and out, one more critically ill than the next. The ICU is purgatory. We are all just sitting there waiting to find out where we’ll be sent.

These past fourteen days I have been so focused on getting her out of here that I forget that leaving here and taking her home may not be the same things.

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